God Told Me To

I'm not exactly sure why, but I've never been the religious type. I've been bitter toward religion since I can remember. When I was five, I even got in a fight with a Sunday school teacher at my friend's church when he was explaining how Jesus walked on water. I stood up and told him it was impossible for anyone to walk on water, except those really cool lizards. He told me I was wrong and not to question Jesus. I called him stupid, and then I was kicked out.

I mean I believe there's a God or whatever, I just don't think he wants me to eat the "flesh" of his "son" over actually doing something productive or good. When I was nine years old, my mother made one last effort to get me excited about church.

This is the story of that day.

It started off poorly, as most Sunday church days seem to do, with my dad dragging me out of bed at six in the morning. After I groggily dressed myself in the awful monkey suit my mom had found, we drove an hour to the massive church she had picked out. It was something non-denominational, which might get you to think that the people there would be less inclined to act like blind sheep. You'd be wrong.

I was greeted with an onslaught of hugs from strangers when we got out of the car, which gave me a bad impression from the start. Hugs from churchgoers always feel so fake and awkward, as if they're only hugging you so they get +2 Jesus points that they can use in the casino in heaven or something. I'm sure a few of them really love hugging people, but come on.

We're told we're a little late, which seemed odd to me considering how many people were outside waiting to hug us. We quickly headed inside, where we found everyone in the room standing and singing, following lyrics that were being projected on the wall. The lyrics were (and I am completely serious about this):

GOD IS GOOD
I LOVE GOD
HE LOVES ME

They sang it once, and I figured Oh, we must have just caught the end of an epic gospel song. No. We caught the beginning of a mindless chant that went on for what seemed like forever, the hundreds of people robotically repeating the same three lines. My parents and I sneaked past a few robots to some empty seats and waited quietly for the mind-numbing song to end.

When it was finally over, the pastor pranced out all hopped up on morning coffee and Jesus love and wearing a kilt. After asking about how awesome God was, he paused.

"I bet you're wondering why I'm wearing this kilt," he said.

"Why?" chanted everyone.

"Well, friends, because God told me to. He came to me in a dream and said 'John, you should wear a kilt for tomorrow's sermon.' That's the amazing thing about God. He can come to you at the strangest times in the strangest ways."

"Oooooh," said the audience.

"That's bullshit," I mumbled to myself as my dad smacked my leg. I looked up at him, and a little louder said

"What? You know it's bullshit!"

This got a few people's attention, and got my mom to pretend like she didn't know me. I stood up, looked at everyone, and yelled

"You're all stupid, mindless sheep!" at the top of my lungs. I then walked out. A few minutes later, my parents came out. My dad was laughing hysterically, and my mom was trying to contain her laughter.

"What'd they say?" I asked.

"I think they think you're possessed or something," said my mom as she walked toward me.

"They want you to see a psychiatrist," said dad.

I cringed.

"Do I have to?"

My dad laughed as he patted me on the back and gave me a high-five.

"Fuck no!" he laughed, "Let's go get some ice cream."

"I hope this doesn't ruin your idea of religion," My mom said as we got in the car.

"Don't worry," I said, "it will."

And it did.